


and yet, here we are

by rey_of_sunlight



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Bisexual Jaskier | Dandelion, Bisexuality, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Cunnilingus, Double Penetration, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Geralt is a horse girl, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is a Mess, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Humor, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, Pining, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Sub Jaskier | Dandelion, Threesome - F/M/M, Top Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vaginal Sex, mentions of euthanasia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:46:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23701036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rey_of_sunlight/pseuds/rey_of_sunlight
Summary: When Yennefer's taking lovers, the only thing she looks for is an unrepentant fuckfest. Authentic connection? She doesn't know her.Jaskier's pining for Geralt, but he knows Geralt could never feel the same way.Geralt's out for his own survival. Just because he hooked up with a sorceress that one time and lets a peacocking bard trot at his heels, doesn't mean he cares about anyone.Or, the tale of three people grappling with feelings for each other, with only a single brain cell between them.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 28
Kudos: 229





	1. losing his grip

It was meant to be just another contract. When the villagers said there was a nest in the swamp, Geralt expected the usual five or six kikimores that came with a colony, not thirty all attacking at once. He swings his sword at one’s head, but the damn beast skitters out of range just in time. Its mandibles glisten as it advances forward again. On four thick, fleshy legs, it stands a head taller than him.

But not for long. With a massive effort, Geralt drives his sword through one of the thick legs. It doesn’t slice it straight through like he’d hoped, but the leg still collapses on itself, bending like a Gwent card in a careless hand. The kikimore sways and lets out rapid clicks of pain. Using just the point to make it quicker, Geralt punctures a second leg, then a third. The kikimore collapses to the ground, and Geralt plunges his sword through the mandibles. Maybe they’ll all actually get out of this al-

A hiss sounds from behind him. He spins and slashes, catching the second kikimore right in its fleshy underside. Black blood spurts from the wound. While he has the advantage, he follows it up with a rapid stab through what passes for the creature’s head. It keels over as he pulls the sword free.

‘Geralt!’ comes the yell from the next isle over. This is par for the course whenever Jaskier insists on accompanying Geralt to ‘really immerse himself in the scene’, whatever the hell that means. With his soft notebook now soaked in kikimore guts, Geralt somehow doubts this experience will do his songs much good. Not that he’s particularly checking for Jaskier. In battle, there’s barely time to defend one person, never mind keep an eye on a second, useless one. Geralt just has to keep an eye on both his back and his front. That’s all.

It’s when he glances again at the isle, and sees Yen struggling too, that he starts to worry.

As soon as he disposes of the next kikimore, he turns and takes a proper look. Yen casts flames from her hands, focusing them entirely on a single kikimore. But as he watches, a second scrapes its claw across her leg. She shrieks – swears – and her flames gutter out. Only for a second, with her skill, but even a second is long enough. The kikimore she was roasting leaps forward, its circular teeth snapping in her face. She staggers back – right into the path of the second kikimore.

He told her he could handle this himself. But she laid a hand lightly on his arm, and said in a voice that promised a thousand things that they could, ‘see how each other fought’, and with the lilac-scent wafting and the candlelight on her dark hair he couldn’t say no.

‘Portal over here!’ he calls, hacking at yet another of the creatures.

Yen looks up. ‘You think I can’t handle a beast?’

Of course he does! But - ‘Not this many!’

Even from here, Geralt sees her expression harden. ‘Fine, then.’ She turns her back to him, blasting flames in her wake.

Fuck. She’ll refuse to use the power that could save her life for the entire fight now, just to show him she can do without it. She’ll likely be on her deathbed before she’ll portal in a fight in front of him again. And with three kikimore now surrounding her and Jaskier shivering and whimpering behind a bush, that deathbed is going to be sooner rather than later.

But he has to stay focused. As Geralt disposes of the latest damned beast, three more kikimore rise up from the muddy swamp waters. He arcs his sword across one – jerks it back to knock another in the head with the pommel – stabs the third. The clicking of their mandibles sounds around him like perverse applause.

He moves on the balls of his feet, never staying in one place. He shoves all distracting thoughts to one side, focusing entirely on what his witcher senses alert him to. He swings until he grows numb to his biceps’ ache. And they’re still coming. Fatigue has begun to creep into him – were he human, he’d have long since collapsed. As it is, he’s got a few minutes at best before it affects his combat.

He can’t afford it. And yet he looks over at Yen and Jaskier anyway. They’re both still alive, thank the gods, and Yen’s still on her feet and casting. But the only reason the kikimores haven’t sunk their teeth into the bard is that he’s in an even smaller ball behind the bush, and Yen’s teeth are gritted and her eyes pained with effort. _They’re gone_ , his witcher training whispers in the back of his mind, decades of coolly assessing a situation and making predictions for his own survival. They’re gone, and he needs to race back to the village and forfeit the fee before he goes the same way.

But his feet stick to the ground. He can swing a sword faster than any monster can get to him, but he can’t just run and leave them. But he has to, screams every survival instinct he’s developed. He doesn’t have long before the kikimore overwhelm him. As Geralt swings and – unthinkably – misses, he realises he doesn’t have long at all.

What are they to him, really? A bard who fancies himself Geralt’s chronicler and one of Geralt’s many lovers? There are whores he’s spent more time with than Yennefer. He’s seen so many people cut down, what are two more?

At the very least, if he has any sense left in his damn head, he’ll bring Yennefer back to the village with him. He’ll rescue his lover, and leave the man who insisted on following him under his duress to the kikimore’s mercy.

He whacks the kikimore aside, runs effortfully through the murky water, and grabs both of them at the same time.

‘Hey!’ Yennefer yells. Jaskier just screams.

‘We have to get out of here. Now.’ He spits the words out from between his teeth.

‘Perhaps you do,’ says Yennefer, casting something at his knuckles and looking disappointed when it has no effect. ‘I can handle myself - ’

‘Just fine, yes, I know,’ Geralt growls. ‘Look around you, Yen, this nest would take three witchers, minimum, to finish off. Just fucking portal us out of here and you can be as angry as you want when we’re all alive to witness it.’

Her eyes flicker towards the kikimore. Then something in them changes, and she extends her hands. A gush of warm air blasts them all, and the portal opens. Part of Geralt wants to keep a hold of them both until they’re safely in the portal. He shoves the ridiculous thought aside and lets them both go, albeit shoving Jaskier towards the portal.

When all three of them are through to the village square and Yennefer has sealed the portal safely shut, Geralt lets out a long breath.  
All of Geralt’s witcher training boils back down to a single truth: _don’t let anyone or anything get in the way of your own survival_. Sixty years wandering the Continent have drilled that truth into his brain even further. To think that he’s losing his grip, in the prime of most witchers’ lives -

He looks at Jaskier, collapsed on all fours in the dirt, and Yennefer, fists still clenched by her sides, and feels terror course through his veins for the first time that night. The first time he risked his life to save theirs could be written off. This second time marks a pattern.

He wants to offer a hand up to Jaskier, thank Yennefer for her powers saving them all. He wants to gather them both into his arms – both of them – and not let them go for the rest of the night.

Instead he grunts at the both of them, and heads to the stable to find the cleaning cloth for his sword in his saddlebags. Roach, at least, is always uncomplicated company.


	2. competition for geralt's hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alone in a tavern, longing for Geralt, Jaskier finds companionship from the most unexpected of sources.

It was meant to be their night off.

Jaskier cradles the mead between his hands – laden with extra spices and honey to keep the Continent’s best voice in working order – and sighs. Both he and Geralt have enough coin for them to cover bed and board without taking on new contracts or singing this evening. Jaskier had planned to enjoy some drinks, go over the chords for his latest masterpiece and chat cheerfully as Geralt gave his friendliest grunts as replies.

‘Something on your mind, bard?’

Or, you know, he could be left alone in a tavern with Geralt’s latest lethally dangerous flame.

He meets her eyes. ‘I’m sure you’d know if there was.’

‘True.’ Yennefer smirks. ‘But the easiest answer to a question is often the best, and I’m sure you sing like a bird for anyone who asks you about yourself.’

Nervousness thrums through Jaskier, but she doesn’t _look_ in a murderous mood. Yet. ‘Depends on who’s asking.’

‘And if I am?’ she says.

‘Why would you be interested?’ The opening notes of ‘The Jarl of Fair Sceilig’ sound from across the inn, and he desperately wishes he could move over there and listen to their rendition. Anything except squirm under her gaze.

She spreads her hands. ‘Do you see anything better to do while Geralt’s off being a do-gooder?’

The thing is, she’s not exactly wrong. First Geralt heard about the drowner contract, set his jaw, and said, ‘The people of this village need a monster hunter, Jaskier, no matter what our plans were,’ looking fierce and noble and not at all like he’d abandoned Jaskier for the night. Then, just as he was saddling up, Yennefer had to sweep in. Once again they’d given each other intense looks, once again they’d packed more filth into three sentences than Jaskier could an entire ballad, and once again Geralt had promised to hurry back with not a single thought spared for his bard. Jaskier could tune his lute or work on his song, but it’s not the same without Geralt’s presence.

Even if his alternative is, well. Her.

‘I can think of things to do that are far less likely to end up with me dead in a ditch.’ He doesn’t intend for it to come out as snappily as it does, but that’s what happens when he’s faced with both a threat to his life and the focus of all Geralt’s affections.

‘What do you mean?’

This time, Jaskier makes an effort to keep his voice level. ‘The last time we had a real conversation, you tried to kill me.’

‘Oh, that? The djinn?’ She frowns. ‘Wasn’t anything personal.’

‘It felt pretty personal! I could have died!’

‘I also healed you,’ she says with an edge in her voice.

‘Because Geralt paid you’, Jaskier points out. ‘When you were left to your own devices, you turned straight to murder.’

‘So does everyone on this damned Continent.’

Jaskier hears enough cynicism from one person in his life. He is not about to start listening to it from another. ‘Geralt doesn’t.’

‘Geralt,’ says Yennefer, ‘is unusual for more than just his mutations.’

‘That he is.’ Anyone who knows Jaskier has to know. Half his songs at this point either explicitly mention Geralt or are odes to ashen-haired, golden-eyed lovers. But that doesn’t mean Yennefer knows, at least not yet. If he can be subtle about it -

‘You’re pining.’

Damn.

‘I’m not pining. I’m lusting, I’ll grant you, but the night is young and filled with beautiful people.’ He sweeps his hand over the crowd. ‘Who wouldn’t lust at a bunch like this?’

‘Oh, you’re pining,’ she says. ‘Not over this crowd, even you aren’t quite that much of a fool, but over _someone_ with broad shoulders and dark armour and yellow eyes.’

‘Geralt’s eyes are golden, not yellow!’ he bursts out without thinking.

Yennefer leans back in her seat and _laughs_. She laughs so loudly and for so long that the rest of the patrons of the tavern start to stare. At last she subsides and looks him in the eye once again. ‘Oh, you’ve got it bad.’

Jaskier blows out a sigh. ‘What if I have? I’m a humble bard, you’re a purple-eyed homicidal witch in black. In what universe am I competition for Geralt’s hand?’

‘Who says I’m interested in his hand?’ she says, raising an eyebrow. ‘I was thinking lower.’

And the situation is so absurd that he can’t help but laugh at that. ‘Watch out down there. I haven’t seen him wash in the last two weeks.’

Yennefer looks at him again, still speculatively, but less like a carrion bird eyeing up a corpse. ‘I’ll get the next ales. You’re amusing when you drink.’

Jaskier spends the next three hours in the corner of that tavern getting blind drunk and exchanging Geralt stories with Yennefer. Of course he tells Geralt stories all the time, whether in conversation or in song, but for once he isn’t being begged for details of Geralt’s sword-work or exactly how he gutted the last monster. Instead it’s, well.

‘Tell me again,’ Yennefer laughs, ‘what he said when you suggested the doublet.’

Jaskier clears his throat and puts on his gruffest intonation. ‘Jaskier, stop dressing me like a fucking peacock.’

‘But it was dark green wool!’

‘Dark green wool and passed through two sets of hands,’ Jaskier confirms. ‘He’d take a blade at his throat before he’d have a second outfit to wear to court.’

‘I can’t see him surviving long at court either way,’ she says. ‘Not when every second word out of his mouth is “hmmm”.’

‘He has no sense of the finer life,’ Jaskier agrees. Feeling the warmth of alcohol start to spread across his body, he looks across the table. ‘You certainly seem to, though.’

‘Court life does that,’ she says. ‘Do you know how hard it is to get used to sleeping on the ground again when you’ve had a feather bed? It was hell before I worked out the tent spell.’

‘Tell me about it.’ Then what she says registers. ‘Wait, when did _you_ sleep on the ground?’

Yennefer’s eyes flash. But all she says is, ‘You sound very surprised by that.’

‘Well -’ Jaskier gesticulates towards her. ‘You know. You’re – you. All the world’s powers at your fingertips. Eyes of violet, hair of raven. All that.’

And then, to his surprise and dizzying fear and faint arousal, he feels... _something_ nudging against his calf. Yennefer’s slipper-encased foot traces a tantalising pattern up towards his knee, and by all the ghouls in the Continent, he does _not_ need an erection right this second. Is this some witchy prelude to death by ripping him apart, limb from limb?

‘I mean no disrespect!’ he rasps out in panic. ‘My lady, I meant only to flatter, not to impose! I wish every blessing to rain upon you and _oh God please don’t kill m-_ ’

Yennefer’s foot has reached his inner thigh. Looking him right in the eye, she says, ‘If you’d meant disrespect, your corpse would be cooling on the ground. Jaskier. There’s still some time before Geralt gets back. He’ll satisfy me once and be gone, and I require more than that this evening. You are by far the least repellent mortal in this tavern, and in fact, you’ve been quite good fun. What do you say?’

Jaskier wants to say no. He wants to leave the first person he’s seen Geralt care for in a more than perfunctory way to Geralt. He wants his best friend happy. But the tavern is warm, and the ale buzzes in his veins, and a beautiful woman with a scathing wit sits opposite him and he’s leaning forward and forward and -

Yennefer’s lips press against his as insistently as her words. The feel of them crackles through Jaskier. Eagerly, he kisses back. She demands every inch of his mouth, moving so quickly that he feels as if he’s been sucked dry. And he wants to keep up with her, he does, but her perfume this close makes him feel drunker than ever. He slides one hand into her hair, stroking it, marvelling at its softness. He scrambles even closer – and bumps into the table, knocking over one tankard with his elbow.

Yennefer withdraws. Meeting her eyes, Jaskier laughs shakily. ‘Your beauty has made me a boor, my lady.’

It’s a line he falls back on whenever his lover is too overwhelming for him to string together original wit. From Yennefer’s look, she’s likely picked up on that too. ‘I was going to tell you to call me Yennefer, but on second thoughts, “my lady” works quite nicely. Come. My room is far more comfortable, and away from prying eyes.’

‘Yes – yes _please_.’ At her raised eyebrow, he quickly adds, ‘My lady.’

Jaskier’s always kept sex on an equal footing. Of course he’s heard the whispers of marriage beds that replicate the page and knight and people who delight in obedience and punishment, but he’s never seen the appeal of power games. Until Yennefer leads him by the hand to her room. His cock strains against his trousers at her firm grip. When she draws the bolt on the door with a bang, he actually squeaks.

She turns to him, taking off her gloves. Seeing her hands emerge bare from the velvet is such a small intimacy, comparatively, and yet he can’t tear his eyes away. Perhaps it’s her skin against the midnight black. Perhaps it’s her fingers, long and graceful, and how they could shock him to death or make him come or maybe both at once.

‘Take those off,’ she says, flicking her eyes up and down Jaskier’s body. If this were anyone else, he’d suggest they take theirs off too with a wink and a rakish grin, maybe get the unlacing rolling himself. But his memory of Yennefer’s powers and her hard gaze on him and the frisson of arousal and fear and guilt still rolling around in his stomach makes him hurry to obey. He slips off his boots. His shirt takes longer with his hands fumbling over the buttons. He has to tug to get rid of his trousers. But at last he’s naked. The cool air on his skin gives him goosebumps, as does Yennefer’s slow, curling grin.

‘Will you be undressing, my lady?’ he ventures. If he’s going to betray Geralt this evening, he at least wants to do it having seen _all_ of her.

‘Slavering to see my tits, then.’ The tone is just as layered with suggestiveness as before, but there’s a flat aggression that only came into her voice when they spoke about sleeping on the ground.

‘No – well – yes! Of course – but not just your - ’ He gestures at his chest. ‘Your breasts are a sight to behold, my lady, but they would mean nothing without the rest of you.’

Is that surprise in her eyes? It’s gone a second later. ‘I’ll consider undressing. When you’ve earned it.’

‘What would earn it?’ Warmth rises across his body as he says that.

Yennefer puts her hands on his shoulders and pushes him to his knees. The floor hits them at the same time as the realisation that she’s only taller than him now. With her commands, he’d almost forgotten that he loomed over her. Now she seems a monolith, a living goddess before which he worships. He takes in a shaky breath.

‘I’m going to sit on the bed,’ she says, in the same tone she spits out incantations. ‘You’re going to kneel in front of me. You’re going to touch and kiss my legs, and you’re going to please me.’

Jaskier shuffles forward on his knees as she sits on the bed. ‘Do you want me to go all the way up, my lady?’ He begs any djinn who might be listening to let that be a yes. Burying his face between her legs, tasting her salt-thick musk, hearing her moan and gasp – it makes his cock twitch at just the thought.

‘Later, perhaps.’ Her purple eyes darken. ‘But I want to see what you can do without going straight there.’

Jaskier’s never been a subtle lover. Of course he pays attention to what makes his companion writhe and what cools their passion, and he’d never suggest penetration without ensuring the man’s been opened or the woman properly wet, but foreplay isn’t what he fantasises about. But overwhelmingly, more almost than arousal, slowly working up to what he longs for awakens a deep need to please. More than he wants to satisfy his own desires, he needs to please his lady.

He glances up at her face one more time before he goes beneath her skirts. Her dark hair, her sharp eyes, her lips, _her her her –_ he needs to give her everything she’s ever wanted. Now he knows why Geralt brought her apple juice. He’d drain an orchard if she asked. This is why every time Geralt sees her, he follows. It’s not the mighty witcher won over by a pretty face. It’s the thousand powers she can control but not the anger on her face. It’s her insistence on independence even as she shares a pint at the slightest suggestion. It’s her ability to command kings, but not to predict that anyone might be interested in more about her than sensual black dresses or useful powers.

And this understanding of Geralt, this reminder of him, jolts guilt through Jaskier again. He doesn’t know what arrangement Geralt and Yennefer have. Yet he feels low and dirty for agreeing to this nonetheless. Whatever Geralt’s said aloud – whatever three words and a grunt he spared for complex emotional negotiation – Jaskier knows Geralt feels far more for Yennefer than for any other lover.

The guilt makes him feel low, like he really does belong at Yennefer’s feet. And that makes his arousal even stronger. He starts at her left ankle, lavishing kisses and licks. He lets his hand wander upward, massaging her calf. It feels furtive, enclosed as he is by the black folds of her skirts. He dots wet kisses up her legs as he strokes them. The occasional prickle of hair against his lips or fingers contrasts against the smoothness and warmth of her skin. Once he gets past her knees, he feels her quiver for the first time.

‘Keep – going,’ comes her voice from above. The unevenness in it makes him grin.

And he does. He trails ghost-like fingertips across her thighs; just the tops of them at first, then lets them linger on the insides. He makes sure to keep them feather-light when they wander inside, and is rewarded with the involuntary contraction of her muscle against his cheek. He brings his lips back into play then, traces them up, up, up the soft skin of her inner thigh – but stops right before it matters most. He’s rewarded with a bitten-off gasp and a, ‘By the runes...’

Truth be told, he’s not far off oaths himself. With no attention paid to him and all his focus on Yennefer’s body, he’s only gotten harder. He presses another open-mouthed kiss as close as he can get without actually pleasuring her. She trembles, more violently than before. A proper moan sounds from above him this time, and she thrusts once, twice towards him.

‘How’s that, my lady?’ Jaskier leans back on his heels, ducking his head to avoid tugging on her skirts.

‘ _Fuck_ , you’re talented,’ Yennefer says. ‘Come out from under there. Stand up.’

When he does, he finds her cheeks darker and her pupils blown. The pleasure on her face makes his cock throb. He wants to make it even stronger. But more than that, he wants – _gods_ , he wants -

She reaches behind her. Jaskier holds his breath. The soft clicks of clasp hooks being undone rise up. Slowly, her shoulders emerge from the black dress. Then the round sleeves drop down and her whole torso is bare. She stands up quickly, kicks off her shoes, pushes her dress to the floor – and there she is. The smoothness of her stomach contrasting with her dark pubic hair makes him want to kiss and lick all the way down. Her breasts, rounded and soft, draw his eyes; one of them would fit perfectly into his hand. He wants to have one in each.

She puts her arms around his waist and pulls him towards her. His lips meet hers again, and his right hand finds her breast. Slowly, he squeezes, relishing the feeling, then flicks her hard nipple with his thumb. She makes a noise, low in her throat, that has Jaskier thrusting towards her before his brain has caught up with his hips. Feeling her against him – the curls of her pubic hair at the base of his cock and the tip just starting to nudge against warm wet flesh -

‘Did I say you could do that?’

Jaskier pulls back, opening his eyes and focusing on her face. ‘No, my lady.’

‘Don’t do it again.’ Her hand slips onto his arse and squeezes, just enough to be painful. Then she attacks his lips again.

As they kiss, he runs his hands over her shoulders. The songs say that witches erase all physical imperfections, and looking at Yennefer has confirmed that. Yet at her shoulder blade he feels a ripple of scar tissue. It’s smoother than a new wound, but thick, standing an inch or two out from her actual shoulder. An injury like that must have been excruciating.

‘What happened, my lady?’ he says.

‘Don’t touch that,’ she spits out. It’s more than her playfully dominant tone; there’s real anger behind the words, anger Jaskier does not want to poke at.

‘Of course.’ Startled, he jerks his hand down to her waist. ‘Do you still want me to please you?’

She meets his eyes again, the anger wiped from her face and voice. ‘Yes. Get on your knees and pleasure me properly.’

He kneels between her open legs. His first licks at her outer labia are quick, wet darts. When her noises go from low bursts to consistent moans, he slows his tongue, lingering and lavishing. She tastes salty out here, and the warmth is constant against his face. Then he faces her, and properly puts his tongue inside her. She throbs around him, hot and wet, and tongue against flesh might be soft, but he can feel the muscle clenched too. The taste, the scent is overwhelming; thick and salty and almost metallic. As he moves his tongue in and out, she gets wetter and loosens around him. Yennefer grabs his hair and pulls his head up. She doesn’t let go, though, instead gripping the back of his head and guiding it to her clitoris. The first touch of his tongue to the hood, soft with a solid underside, gets the loudest moan yet. He follows it up with more, more, more, and her voice is more scream than moan and her thighs clench around him and her fingers grip his hair so hard it hurts -

Warm wetness explodes across the bottom half of Jaskier’s face as she pulses around him. He looks up to see her head tipped back and her eyes screwed closed, her scream so forceful it rasps at the end. Her eyes flick open and meet his, still a little dazed.

Panting, coming down from her orgasm, she takes him by the shoulders and pulls him up, on top of her. They’re level with each other again, and for a second it feels off, like Jaskier should be always below her. His cock throbs as he brushes against her smooth skin, and the thought dissipates.

‘Lie beside me,’ she says.

When he does, she turns so she’s facing him and reaches downwards. Pleasure courses through him as her hand wraps around his cock. Stroking slowly, blissfully down it, she meets his eyes again, grinning in a way that shows almost all her teeth.

As his eyes slide shut, the last thing he feels is her warm breath on his ear. ‘Now that’s what I call earning a reward.’

Then her clever fingers stroke him, one hand giving him ceaseless attention while the other finds his balls and works them. She gets faster as she goes, and the heat presses against his skin and her firm grasp and it’s building and building and he’s going to -

Ecstasy bursts through him, out of him. Shuddering and gasping, the world blanks out for a split second before Jaskier comes back down to earth. He lets out a long breath, loosening his fists curled around the blanket.

When his gaze focuses on Yennefer again, her index finger glows as she points it at her other hand. Wherever she points it, the come vanishes from her hands. She looks up at him and points her finger at him, siphoning off the come from his body as well.

‘Thank you,’ Jaskier breathes. ‘I’ve never done this mistress-servant thing before, but that was incredible.’

She sits up. ‘It’s the only way I have sex. Don’t think that you’re special.’

That’s not what Jaskier normally hears from a person he was pleasuring. Especially not when it was less than ten minutes ago. ‘I don’t. I just – wait, don’t you want to cuddle or bask in the moment or something?’

Instead of lying back and savouring the afterglow, Yennefer’s slid off the bed and is already picking up her dress. ‘You’re very sweet.’

He frowns. ‘What does _that_ mean?’

‘Firstly,’ she says, pushing her arms into the sleeves, ‘not all of us compose a dozen love ballads for every ship that passes in the night. Secondly, I don’t _cuddle_. And thirdly, Geralt’s telepathic presence has just passed the boundary of the inn. Unless you want him knowing all your business, we’d best head out quick.’

‘Ah.’ As Jaskier scrambles up and starts looking for his smallclothes, the guilt curdles in his stomach once again. Guilt – and the twisting knowledge that he loves Geralt, he’s fascinated by Yennefer, and yet the most they want out of him is a convenient companion.

He tugs on his clothes hurriedly, and Yennefer unlatches the door. Watching her black hair spilling across her shoulders, her self-assured movements and stance, a thousand words bubble up inside him.

‘If I’m not special,’ Jaskier bursts out, ‘then why did you pick me? Instead of someone here, someone you’d never see again, someone who’d obey you just like I did?’

Standing in the doorframe, Yennefer looks back at him one more time. Her eyes hold an open expression for the first time that evening. ‘I wanted to know if _you’d_ obey me.’


	3. impossible things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Roach injured, Geralt must confront desires and feelings he's always kept locked away.

It was meant to be an in-and-out job. Roach would carry what Geralt needed to face the alghoul. He’d take out the old sword and helmet - the lures for a creature born from a battle’s blood. He’d leave them down and wait, hidden, for the alghoul to crawl out of its den and start examining them. Then he’d strike. Since he’d checked the tracks over and over before bringing Roach anywhere near the alghoul, he’d been certain she’d be safe by its southern edge.

But then came the snarl, the crunch and the ear-splitting whinny. It had been testament to Geralt’s years of careful training that Roach hadn’t bolted the second the thing bit her.

Now he leads her back to where they’d made the camp. He carries the sword, helmet and extra potions himself, despite the weight. His arms are full between them and the reins. Otherwise, he’d carry the alghoul head as well. A spare rag at the bottom of the saddlebag is now tightly wrapped around her foremost right-hand cannon – her calf, were she human. It’ll hold back some of the bleeding, but it’s already starting to darken. Worse, when Geralt took a cautious sniff, he caught the bitter taint of alghoul venom on the wound. Roach can still walk, but through the tension on her reins he can feel her leaning most of her body weight off the injured leg. Audible huffs of breath escape her as they walk, and she lets out soft whinnies of pain.

‘Easy there,’ he says, patting her neck. Roach might have had most of the skittishness trained out of her when Geralt bought her, but she, like any horse, does best when reassured.

Gratitude washes over him for his witcher senses. A human would have to make do with blurred sight and fumbling fingers to treat Roach’s wound. Geralt can get a direct confirmation of venom and infection from its scent and see exactly how well or badly the wound is knitting itself back together. For once, he actually feels like his mutations can do some good.

But worry thrums underneath it. Of course he’s lost Roaches over the years. No horse can keep up with an ordinary human lifespan, let alone a witcher’s. But Geralt has never let himself lose a Roach to a job.

He’d feel them slowing down on the road. He’d see the silver hairs in their muzzles, the way they’d lean too heavily against the trees they were tied against. And he’d find the warmest stable stall in a town. He’d fork over every last coin he had to get Roach that stall and give her the best oats in the whole damned place.

Then he’d sing.

It’s the only song Geralt ever sings, and only with his Roaches. The words and tune bring back wavering, uncertain memories, of a woman’s (his mother’s?) hands in his hair, of a blanket scratchy-soft against his skin. He hears it when he passes through villages at night; when he asked Jaskier about it, the bard told him it was a children’s lullaby, more than a century old.

_Like the river flowing deep,_

_Like the water’s steady seep,_

_Sleep, love, sleep..._

He’d sing every last verse looking into Roach’s eyes, sing till his voice was cracking from more than just the effort. And when he knew Roach felt safe and warm and utterly loved, he’d cast Axii and slit her throat.

Perhaps it’s evidence that everyone else is right. That witchers feel nothing. Then again, Geralt would take feeling nothing over subjecting a horse to death by monster mutilation.

If this Roach is the first horse he allows to die in pain, Geralt no longer deserves to have one.

*

When Geralt reaches their camp, Jaskier looks up. ‘How did it go?’

‘Roach is hurt,’ Geralt spits out.

Jaskier stands up and strides over to meet them both. ‘Do you need more supplies? I can head back to Allion and find some.’

Geralt leads Roach as gently as he can to one of the larger oaks and ties her reins to it, leaving plenty of slack so she can lie down. He drops the potions and relics beside her. ‘No. I saw some herbs growing on the way back that should help Roach. Don’t go anywhere while I’m gone.’

Geralt tears the branches of a bush aside, hunting for hellebore. Yen’s healing spells and concoctions would be invaluable. She could have ten different remedies for every one of his. She’d know exactly how to help Roach.

For the first and probably last time in his life, Geralt wishes he could create a portal. He could have Yen here in no time, know that Roach was safe and – well. Of course they could fuck by the fire, but he wants something else as well. He wants to know that while he keeps Roach warm and her wound clean, someone else will keep vigil. That even as he throws every last drop of energy into caring for Roach, Yen’s competence and sharp eye is directed at...caring for him.

This is ridiculous. Geralt is shaken up by Roach being hurt, that’s all. He wrenches the hellebore from the earth viciously. He has enough for a paste, anyway. He stalks back to the camp, shoving the unruly thoughts down with a vengeance. Focus on Roach. Focus on getting her better, and he can have all the time he wants to think about impossible things, like someone holding him or staying with him or knowing when he needs someone to support him -

By Lambert’s miniscule prick.

Jaskier’s _touching_ the horse. In the midst of her injury, when the last thing she needs is unnecessary jostling, he’s sitting beside her and stroking her head. Fury shoots through Geralt, and he’s about to burst from the trees and ask what the hell Jaskier thinks he’s doing when he hears it.

‘ _Like the river flowing deep,_

_Like the water’s steady seep,_

_Sleep, love, sleep..._ ’

Jaskier’s singing to her.

A lump forms in Geralt’s throat. He hadn’t expected to lose this Roach so soon. Then he shakes himself. Jaskier doesn’t know when and where Geralt sings this. To him, it’s just a calming lullaby.

‘ _Let it take you to the deep,_

_Let it softly seep and seep,_

_Sleep, love, sleep.’_

Roach’s eyes are closed, but her ears prick up every time Jaskier hits a higher note. Geralt flattens himself against a tree, wanting to see what else Jaskier does. Tension unknots itself in Geralt’s chest. This is the first time since Geralt was a child that he’s let himself listen to the song in full. And, it’s ridiculous, but Geralt had almost forgotten the song could be anything except soaked in the blood of mercy kills.

What would it be like to have Jaskier sing him a lullaby? What would it be like to be held and cared for? What would it be like for Geralt to uncoil his muscles and open himself to someone else?

Jaskier fetches the blanket from the saddlebags, something Geralt himself had forgotten to do, and put it over Roach. Geralt curses himself briefly – with the shock of the wound, Roach will need that blanket to stay warm – but is distracted again. Jaskier tucks the blanket closer around her. Even as Jaskier moves his hands across Roach, even as he adjusts his position to sit more comfortably, he does so slowly, never jolting her or startling her.

Geralt inhales sharply as Jaskier reaches for the makeshift bandage. Should he - ? But Jaskier unwinds the cloth gently, only moving the leg as much as he has to.

‘You’re doing so well,’ Jaskier says softly. ‘Almost braver than your witcher.’

The only correction Geralt would have to Jaskier’s veterinary care would be to replace _almost_ with _definitely_.

Jaskier bends slightly to examine the wound. Geralt should go over, see the wound again for himself – but something has him wanting to see exactly what Jaskier does alone. Still, he’s not so out of it that he doesn’t check the wound himself. At this distance and in the growing gloom, he can’t make out half of what he would if he were beside Roach. But he can see that the blood, while still oozing from the punctures, has stopped properly pumping. Roach may be weakened from some time. She may still be in danger from venom or the wound healing badly. But she won’t be taken from him by blood loss. Geralt lets his fingers uncurl, only now noticing their cramping from being held in tight fists for too long.

‘You’ve been so brave,’ Jaskier says, reaching for one of the waterskins. ‘Just a little longer, alright?’

Jaskier shrugs off his doublet and rolls up his sleeves. Geralt’s stomach twists in unexpected anticipation as Jaskier bares his forearms. But that’s just a distraction.

Pulling the cork from the waterskin, Jaskier pours water over the sleeve of his doublet. The last time Roach kicked road dust onto that doublet, Geralt had been treated to a lecture longer than some ballads about the exact expense, rarity and artistry of the materials. What is Jaskier _doing_?

Jaskier pats Roach’s wound with the wet part of his doublet. Geralt bites his lip, afraid that Jaskier will rub and hurt her further. But Jaskier stays gentle, dabbing at the wound just slightly. When that corner of his doublet is dark with blood, he wets another corner and keeps sponging away. Roach lets out a noise, once, when he pushes just a little too hard. Then he scratches behind her ears and she subsides. He’s completely cleaned the pus and blood away.

‘How do you know all this?’ Geralt demands, striding towards Jaskier.

Jaskier starts at the sound of Geralt’s voice. ‘All of what?’

Geralt gestures to the blanket and the newly cleaned wound.

‘I spent a lot of time with stable boys as an adolescent,’ Jaskier says, grinning.

Geralt snorts. ‘And you got lessons in horse care between rounds of buggering?’

‘Actually, yes.’ Jaskier strokes Roach’s mane. ‘I don’t have the same flawless expertise I have with music, but I’ve picked up a thing or two.’

Geralt crouches beside Roach. She’s lying down with her eyes closed, but her breathing is even, and her flank isn’t sweaty the way it would be if she had collapsed out of pain or weakness. The wound still glistens with blood, but it’s congealing, not flowing.

‘Thank you,’ Geralt bursts out. When did Jaskier’s eyes get so piercingly, unflinchingly blue?

Surprise flickers over Jaskier’s face. Is it really that unusual for Geralt to express gratitude? He thinks back over their time spent together, and to his surprise, he finds that it is.

Geralt sits awake late that night, listening to Jaskier snore. Meditation isn’t happening tonight, and so instead Geralt looks at the stars. When Jaskier sees a monster, he screams instead of stabbing it. When Jaskier sees interpersonal drama, he jumps in head-first instead of keeping back. And yet he saw Roach hurting and comforted her. He saw what needed to be done and did it.

Yen would do it, too. She’d close the wound with a wave of her hand, kill infection with a word.

But she wouldn’t sit with Roach, wouldn’t sing to the horse or talk to her. Yen knows what it is to never age, to have power that sets one apart. Now that Geralt’s felt that bone-deep understanding, he never wants to go back to a life without it.

But would she sit beside another living being? Not a tool, not a source of money or sex or affirmation, but simply a living thing? Would she sink into something’s pain and stay with it?

Jaskier would.

Jaskier did.

*

Geralt spends most of the next day lugging the alghoul’s head to Allion on foot. He dumps it on the table of the town hall, grabs his coin and leaves without another word. He replenishes what supplies they need, and invests the remainder of the coin in clean strips of cloth.

‘Any healers here? Witches?’ he asks the woman at the market stall.

She shakes her head.

At least there’s been no further complications. First thing this morning he checked the wound again, and while it wasn’t yet fully scabbed over, the vinegar-bitter scent of venom had gone. There was no sign of pus; only the yellowish discharge that came from ordinary horse wounds in the early stages of healing.

Jaskier catches his eye as he checks over Roach again that evening. ‘How is she?’

‘Standing.’ Geralt pets her nose. ‘Not moving far, but not in pain either.’

‘Poor thing.’ Jaskier’s hand joins Geralt’s on Roach’s nose, further up. Their hands rest barely an inch apart. If Geralt just moved his hand a little further down, he’d feel those deft fingers, those lute calluses beneath his own. ‘She’ll recover, though?’

‘If we let her rest some more,’ Geralt says.

‘Good,’ says Jaskier. ‘Enough time for you to have a wash.’

‘Don’t need one.’ Geralt scratches behind Roach’s ears. The horse lets out an appreciative whicker.

Jaskier takes his hand off Roach and folds his arms. ‘You’re filthy.’

‘Hardly.’

‘Geralt, your face is covered in muck,’ Jaskier says.

Geralt raises his hand to his face and frowns. His skin does feel oddly crusted. There had been a few more stares in Allion than usual, but he’d guessed it was because of the alghoul head.

‘Let me at it.’ And Jaskier is suddenly two inches from Geralt’s face.

Jaskier’s sent Geralt’s smallclothes to the laundry, scrubbed him raw, seen him naked. He’s as familiar with Geralt’s body as any ally in a fight. But as Jaskier spits on a rag and raises it to Geralt’s face, Geralt’s heart pounds as if he’s facing down a monster. Jaskier rubs the rag against his cheek, and Geralt swallows a gulp.

Because, for all the times Jaskier’s seen Geralt stripped down, Geralt’s never seen Jaskier. Jaskier’s looking away from Geralt, focused on scrubbing away a particularly stubborn bit of dirt, so it’s safe to examine his face. The soft lock of hair flopping into his eye, the dark arch of his eyebrows, the bit of his cheek that dents into a dimple when he sings – it’s all _so close_. Jaskier’s here. Lavishing care on him.

Loving him?

Geralt swallows a gulp, but a strangled noise escapes his throat nonetheless.

Jaskier looks up. ‘Drowner got your tongue?’

Every time Geralt and Yen have fucked, Geralt has buried his face in her neck just after, inhaling her. Yen always strokes his hair. They’ve never discussed these touches. Geralt is not sure what would happen if they did.

Jaskier this close feels just like inhaling lilac and gooseberries.

He doesn’t know what to do with all these feelings. But what he does know is that in crisis, the only thing that matters is action.

‘Jaskier,’ Geralt says, his voice rough and ragged. ‘Kiss me.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I forgot to add this to previous chapters, but: if you want to hit me up on Tumblr and flail about Witcher stuff together, I am reyofsunlight666 there!


	4. kisses like he fights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt's kissed Jaskier. Now it's up to Jaskier how to respond.

Jaskier drops the rag.

Of course he was aware of how close they were together. How could he not be? Their chests almost brushed together as he stretched on his toes. Geralt’s cheek was warm beneath his fingertips, only a scant bit of woven cloth keeping them apart. But now he feels the two inches that make up the distance between them, feels it like the first drop of his stomach when he stands before a tavern.

He meets Geralt’s eyes. ‘This isn’t a joke, is it?’

Wordlessly, Geralt shakes his head.

Jaskier’s heart beats loud in his ears. Hands trembling, he brings them slowly, slowly onto Geralt’s biceps. Even clothed, the hard curves of muscle make him gulp. Sliding his hands up to Geralt’s neck, he tilts his head upwards once again.

He kisses Geralt.

The contact sears through his veins like vodka. Geralt’s lips scrape against Jaskier’s, peeling and cracked from hours blasted by the wind. Geralt kisses like he fights; assertively, pushing for what he wants, but only pushing exactly as much as he has to. Geralt’s arms wrap tight around Jaskier’s waist. He shivers. Being _held_ by Geralt, up against him just like he’s imagined – it’s delicious, so close and yet not close enough. Geralt’s tongue brushes Jaskier’s lower lip, and Jaskier strokes Geralt’s cheek. The stubble prickles under his fingers.

Geralt’s arms loosen. Jaskier jumps. Geralt’s hands – they’re at his waist, wrestling with the ties to his breeches, right over his cock.

‘ _Somebody’s_ impatient,’ Jaskier purrs into his ear.

Geralt unlaces them. ‘Need to make you come.’

‘Already?’ Jaskier strokes the back of Geralt’s neck. ‘There’s such a thing as relishing the moment, you know.’

Geralt’s eyes flick to Jaskier’s face. It’s only for a second, but it’s enough to tell Jaskier that there’s more than just lust behind this. ‘What is it?’

‘I’m not paying for you.’ Geralt’s hands tighten around the breech ties.

‘And?’ says Jaskier.

An irritated huff of breath escapes Geralt. ‘You know.’

‘I’m not Yennefer.’ _No, you aren’t_ , a traitorous corner of his mind whispers, but he stomps on the thought. ‘If you want me to know, you have to tell me.’

‘You’re sleeping with _me,_ ’ Geralt says finally. ‘A witcher. A m-’

Jaskier cuts him off by kissing him, hard. Geralt could break Jaskier’s hold in an instant if he wanted to, but he fumbles to kiss Jaskier back. When Jaskier pulls back, Geralt’s eyes are still open.

‘Dearest, idiotic witcher,’ Jaskier breathes. ‘I’ve seen you with your eyes black from potions and your clothes dripping with drowner guts. Did I call you a monster then?’

‘...No.’

Jaskier grasps Geralt’s wrists, lifting them from his breech ties. ‘I want you. _You_. I don’t want to wring pleasure from you and leave. I don’t want to come and then flee into the night. I don’t want anything from you but to be with all of you.’

Jaskier pauses. Both their breaths come ragged.

‘Geralt. Let me take care of you.’

Geralt’s voice is so low that without the motion of his chest against Jaskier’s, Jaskier might have missed it. ‘ _Please._ ’

Jaskier steps back a little, just enough to take Geralt’s hand. Leading Geralt to the bedroll, he sits and gestures for Geralt to follow. Geralt sits on his heels with the same look in his eyes as when he’s watching a monster; alert, cautious, but open too. And slowly, slowly, Jaskier reaches for the hem of Geralt’s shirt.

Jaskier tugs it over Geralt’s head.

It’s as if a dam has broken. Jaskier scrambles towards Geralt just as Geralt pulls Jaskier flush against him. Geralt bare, muscled, scarred against him – Jaskier starts kissing him everywhere he can reach. Geralt’s hands grab Jaskier’s arse, squeezing tight enough to be painful. Right at the base of Geralt’s neck, Jaskier sinks his teeth in.

The pink-red bruise on Geralt’s pale throat stands out like a flag of conquest. Jaskier presses his thumb against it. ‘Feel that?’

Geralt’s eyes slide shut. ‘Mhmm...’

‘I was there,’ Jaskier says, his cock throbbing against his breeches. ‘And now I’ll stay with you for days on end.’

‘More. I want – more places. More _you_.’ Geralt’s hands rove up Jaskier’s spine hungrily.

An idea shoots through Jaskier, white-hot. ‘I could fuck you.’

There’s a beat of silence.

‘Is that a no?’

‘I’ve never...been fucked before,’ says Geralt. ‘But...’

‘But?’ Jaskier tucks a lock of hair behind Geralt’s ear.

Geralt lets out a long, shuddering breath. ‘But I want to.’

‘Then you’re in luck,’ says Jaskier, with a deliberate grin. ‘You’ve got the best to show you how.’

‘Prove it,’ Geralt says. It’s almost as sardonic as usual.

Jaskier takes off his trousers. ‘Now do you believe me?’

Geralt glances downwards. To Jaskier’s satisfaction, his eyes widen just a bit. Then his hands are at his trousers, moving witcher-quick, and – _oh_.

Jaskier’s imagined Geralt naked so many times, but the reality of it – white hair loose and wild over his scarred shoulders, muscles intimidatingly huge, and by Melitele, his enormous, throbbing cock – is overwhelming. Jaskier grabs him by the arse and pulls him down again. That brief touch alone gets him harder.

‘How do you want me?’ he says.

Geralt pauses, but finally answers, ‘On top of me. I – I want to be on my back.’

In answer, Jaskier slides his hands to Geralt’s shoulders and pushes him down onto the bedroll. The ground is cold and hard against his knees. The campfire provides scant warmth for his forearms and little else. But Geralt is warm beneath his fingers, and meeting Geralt’s eyes when he’s beneath Jaskier sends a rush of heat through him.

Jaskier grabs the nearest saddlebag. He takes out a vial, then gestures for Geralt to raise his hips. Sliding it under Geralt, he props him up.

‘Just get it done,’ says Geralt, with the kind of gruffness he uses when he’s most nervous.

‘Have to get you ready first,’ Jaskier says. He dips his index finger deep into the vial, then lifts Geralt’s massive thighs onto his shoulders. Gently, he places his fingertip at Geralt’s entrance and slowly pushes inside. Geralt closes his eyes and exhales harshly from his nose.

‘You alright?’

‘Keep going.’ The words come out laboured.

Geralt’s arse is hot and tight around Jaskier’s finger. Excitement shoots through him as he carefully starts to move the finger in, out, in, out. Then he feels a little lump – and rubs.

‘Fuck!’ Geralt rears upwards. ‘Was that -’

Jaskier grins sharply. ‘Be nice and I’ll touch it even more.’

Impatience shoots through Jaskier. He still drowns his fingers in lube, of course he does, but he adds another and moves it in faster than before. When he withdraws it, Geralt bucks his hips back onto it.

‘Fuck me, Jaskier, fuck me or I swear I’ll - ’

He’s cut off by Jaskier kissing him. Geralt’s sweat-dirt musk surrounds him, engulfs him as his arse is about to. As Jaskier nips at Geralt’s lips, he slathers his cock in lube. Then he pulls backwards and places the tip of his cock at Geralt’s entrance. Geralt moans.

‘Ready?’ Jaskier says.

Geralt nods.

And Jaskier pushes inside him.

 _Gods._ Every inch of his cock sings at the feel of being inside Geralt. Geralt’s legs rest heavy on Jaskier’s shoulders, but Jaskier doesn’t let that stop his first tentative thrust.

‘Like that?’

‘Fuck – Jaskier - ’ Geralt pants. ‘Harder.’

Jaskier wants to retort snappily, but the feeling of it’s making it difficult to remember how to speak. He’s inside Geralt, as close as he can possibly be, and as he meets Geralt’s eyes again he feels their connection sear. He can’t wait any longer – he doesn’t want to wait. He thrusts faster and faster, Geralt moving his hips back onto him in a rhythm they take almost no time to find.

Jaskier presses his weight down even further. His thighs have started to tremble with the effort, but the pleasure is even more overwhelming. Geralt pants audibly with every thrust, his cheeks getting pink. Jaskier lets out his loudest moan yet and angles his hips so his cock hits Geralt’s prostate. At that, Geralt tips his head back and growls. The pleasure isn’t in the control; it’s in the _letting_ , that a fighter over six foot tall with superhuman strength trusts Jaskier enough to do this. To see him like this – his stoic mask falling away and revealing him bare and open -

Jaskier can’t wait any longer. He pistons his hips faster and faster, then comes in a shuddering mess. When he opens his eyes, Geralt’s frantically tugging at his own cock.

Jaskier closes his hand over Geralt’s. When Geralt releases his cock, Jaskier starts moving. It only takes a few strokes before Geralt’s spilling himself, hot and viscous over Jaskier’s knuckles.

For a moment, they only look at each other. Jaskier withdraws, heart still hammering. Geralt sucks in air like it’s going somewhere.

‘Honeysuckle.’

‘Huh?’

‘Honeysuckle,’ Geralt repeats. ‘I could never figure out what you smelled like until now.’

‘That’s the perfume,’ Jaskier says.

Geralt huffs a laugh. ‘What do you really smell like?’

‘Maybe if you stay around long enough, you’ll get to find out.’ Jaskier meant it to come out teasing, light-hearted. Instead, his voice wavers, and the last phrase goes up like a question.

‘I -’ Geralt breaks off, and Jaskier holds his breath. ‘I want to.’

‘Want to...?’

‘Stay around. Do this again.’

‘That’s quick. Didn’t realise they gave you hard-on mutations as well.’

‘You wish, bard.’

Jaskier shoves Geralt’s shoulder, but the uncertainty sitting in his stomach makes it hard to keep the teasing going. ‘You want...this...like you want Yennefer, then?’

‘Yes!’ Geralt sounds genuinely relieved. ‘Like Yennefer.’

It’s only later Jaskier realises neither of them said what, exactly, that meant. Nor has either of them mentioned what happens when they meet Yennefer again.


	5. something deeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt, Jaskier and Yennefer run into each other again while hunting down a dragon. Yennefer has thoughts she's trying to suppress. Jaskier is overflowing with them.

‘How are you finding the trek?’

It’s the fourth time Sir Eyck’s asked Yennefer that.

She grits her teeth. ‘Just fine.’

‘If you’re sure. I know mountain paths can be dangerous for those unaccustomed to hard treks - ’

She blocks out the rest of the sentence, for her sanity, and focuses on the path up.

If only she could cheat. Alone, she’d possess a bird to sneak a look at the dangers ahead or blast her competitors with fire from behind. But between showing just how much power she has and violating the laws of chivalry, it’d scare Sir Eyck off. Dealing with a dragon means magic alone won’t cut it. She’ll need muscle, and Sir Eyck was easily taken in by a pretty face and wide eyes, and, despite his chaste protestations, the promise of more than just looking.

Yennefer surveys him from the corner of her eye. He’s blandly pretty himself, with a strong jaw and striking blue eyes, and will do as a toy, at least. Nothing like Geralt’s wolfish energy or Jaskier’s light, mischievous touches, of course, but that can’t be helped.

To distract herself, she says, ‘Tell me about your sword, Sir Eyck. It looks like it’s seen its share of mighty deeds.’

Geralt would have said a sword’s deeds depend on the skill of its owner. Jaskier would have waggled his eyebrows and asked which sword she meant. But lovers come at a tuppence. Regaining her womb is priceless.

Sir Eyck pulls his sword from its sheath, ensuring it catches the light, and says, ‘This, dear lady, is an ancient and noble blade! Its valiant history began in the hands of Lord Vernon of White Orchard, who used it to slay the black-hearted elves who infested the mountains.’

Then he stops, catching her eye. Yennefer’s nonplussed until she reads his telepathic signals. He’s waiting, wet and eager like a slobbering dog, for her to be impressed.

She musters up a gasp. That satisfies him, and he goes on. ‘They were descending into the village, kidnapping helpless women and children. But when Lord Vernon was done, he stood atop a pile of the dead creatures, their poisonous blood seeping into the ground.’

He says that last part with relish. What would he say if he knew she had some of that poisonous blood herself?

They’ve finally arrived at the starting point. Yennefer glances over to the other teams. Geralt is tethering Roach and going over supplies, while Jaskier has flopped onto a crate.

This is a coincidence too many, spotting them at that tavern. The tug at her gut, the prickle at her skin when a spell begins is nagging at her. She can’t pinpoint exactly what’s going on, magically speaking, but it’s definitely _something_. It would go a long way towards explaining the swoop in her stomach when she saw them again.

‘Sir Eyck,’ she bursts out. ‘I must go and wish luck to our opponents. A lady treats even those in competition with her with kindness and respect.’

Before waiting for him to answer, she heads over to Geralt and Jaskier.

And instead of anything remotely cunning, she blurts, ‘How is it that I’ve walked this earth for decades without coming across a witcher, and then the first one I meet I can’t get rid of?’

‘What are you doing here, Yen?’ Geralt says. After Sir Eyck’s endless, flowery sentences, his bluntness feels like a fresh shock of cold water.

‘Yen – Yennefer?’ It’s the first time she’s seen both of them together since she slept with Jaskier.

She bites the inside of her lip – a useful gesture, that, one that’s let her relieve tension during many a court negotiation without losing her credibility. But if she speaks for longer than a word or two, they’ll hear...whatever’s in her gut...in her voice. ‘Jaskier.’

‘It’s been a while.’ He sweeps a lock of hair out of his face with a flourish. Judging by his thoughts, he intends it to look like a Geralt gesture. In reality, it resembles a peacock reshuffling its feathers. Yennefer hides a grin.

Yennefer’s slept with enough people that she’s been in a room with two or more of her lovers at the same time. It shouldn’t be an issue. It _isn’t_ an issue. Geralt and her had fun together, and will continue to do so. So did she and Jaskier.

Then a particular telepathic phrase catches her attention: _Please don’t let him notice, please don’t let him notice_...

It’s Jaskier. Does Geralt not know they slept together? Why would it _matter_ to Geralt if they slept together? As a matter of fact, why does this matter to her?

A bead of sweat slides down her back. The pause in the conversation has stretched out too long.

‘I’m here with my escort, Noble Sir Eyck of Denesle,’ she says, answering Geralt’s question more to distract than to give truth. ‘To assist him in killing the dragon.’

She meets Geralt’s eyes, and sees a slight crease between his eyebrows. The moment their eyes lock, his telepathic signals change dramatically. She hadn’t been paying attention to what they were before, but now she gets short, emphatic sentences: _Draconic-like scent around this area, but no dragon tracks. Enough oil? Keep my eyes open for bison grass on the trail..._

It’s all things it would make perfect sense for Geralt to be thinking. But they’re so much like what he says aloud that suspicion creeps through her mind. Geralt’s mind is normally a Skellige treasure chest; rough-carved and dull on the surface, brimming with a wealth of treasures beneath the lid. The only time his thoughts match his words this way is when he’s fighting.

What is Geralt trying to hide from her?

‘Don’t you mean he’s assisting you?’ Geralt says.

‘Either way, it’ll be me who gets the dragon heart.’ Shit. She hadn’t meant to let slip the reason -

Geralt snorts. ‘You’re not here looking for made-up fertility cures, are you?’

She says nothing.

‘You _are_.’

Jaskier stops checking his doublet for fraying strings and looks up at her. ‘Fertility cures? Why would _you_ want a child?’

And both of them – _both_ of them dismissing this goal of hers, this thing that she’s been searching for for so long – prickles into her. ‘What if I do?’

‘Well, you’re...’ Jaskier trails off, gesturing at her vaguely. ‘If the kid was, let’s say...apprentice to an assassin, or an Aretuza novice, you’d be perfect. But a baby?’

Anger spurts through Yennefer. ‘What, because some bard and mutant are the experts on parenting?’ She grabs her bag and strides away.

‘Eyck!’ she says.

He looks up from sharpening his sword. ‘My lady, what is it you require?’

Geralt might have said that. He might have said that simply, when she needed immediate help with an emergency. He might have said that sardonically when she’d demanded one thing too many. He might have said that with a sharp-toothed grin as he knelt between her legs. But he’d never have looked at her as a puppy looks at meat on a fork, all feigned innocence with a deeper ultimatum.

‘Bring me apple juice.’

‘Apple juice?’ Sir Eyck blinks. ‘My lady, you know I live to serve your every whim, but we are preparing for a harsh mountain trek, and - ’

‘ _In my tent_ ,’ she grits out. ‘Come on.’

She speaks a single word, and the tent unfurls itself from a pack to a full structure. All the furniture will be in its place as soon as she enters, and she thanks Melitele for small blessings.

He follows her in with wide eyes. ‘You can do...all this?’

‘Yes, Sir Eyck, I can,’ she says, sitting at the chair in front of her dressing table. ‘Now. Apple juice. On the cabinet.’

  
Silently, for once, he gets the jug and goblet, brings them to her and pours it out. But even as she revels in her own power, restlessness stirs within her. She loves apple juice. It’s the blandest drink she’s had in her life.

‘May I...have some, too?’

Yennefer nods. ‘Should be another goblet on the cabinet.’

He grabs a second chair and drags it beside her. He’s far too close, but this feels for the first time like a bizarre sort of companionship.

‘It’s full again,’ Sir Eyck says, picking up the jug.

She raises an eyebrow. ‘Magic.’

The most commonplace of conveniences to her are miracles to others. But even this isn’t enough. She wants people to listen to her. She wants to impress. But she no longer wants the listener to flee the second she’s done speaking. She wants – _Jaskier_ – to obey, but because he wants to. She wants someone who is just as capable of slinging biting words back.

‘...I’m glad we’re both here.’

  
She pulls herself back to the present with an effort. ‘Oh? Is that so?’

Sir Eyck clasps one of her hands in both of his. She has to work not to wince at the clamminess. ‘We’re a brave knight and a shining lady, on a noble quest across the mountains to slay a hideous beast, just as the ballads tell it! Does this not thrill you?’

Yennefer keeps the irritation off her face. The thing about making and performing ballads for a living is that, despite encouraging frankly ludicrous levels of showiness and impulsivity, it makes a bard deeply aware of just how false ballads can be. Jaskier sees backstage in both plays and life. Despite his grandstanding, he’s deeply rooted in what makes a life worth living – sex, coin, luxuries, skill, exploration, curiosity.

Love.

How many of those does Yennefer actually have? And how many of them mean anything without the last?

‘It’s...an experience,’ she says at last.

But she hears his telepathic signals once again. It’s not just noble adventures Sir Eyck is focused on. It’s afterwards, when the maiden swoons in the knight’s arms, when he carries her off to be his _one true love_.

Yennefer’s thinking of a witcher and a bard, a jaded face hiding a wealth of thoughts, a ball of chaos hiding a subtle empathy and a sharp wit. She’s thinking of them both, and how she doesn’t think she can do without either of them.

*****

They’re not long on the path when Yennefer hears a scuffle. She turns, peers back – and sees Jaskier picking through the bush. Does he want to get himself killed?

His mind radiates...shame? Embarassment? Determination? A mixture of all three, she settles on, but she’s missed the context for his actions. She leaves one hand on her dagger, just in case.

‘My lady!’ Sir Eyck has unsheathed his sword and is, literally, holding it in front of her. Not at her throat, not as a threat, oh no – that at least she could deal with via a nicely aimed fireball. He’s holding the sword with the flat of the blade towards her, across her, so she can’t move forward.

‘What are you doing?’ Yennefer says.

‘It is too dangerous to follow him into the undergrowth,’ he says. ‘Who knows what monstrosities lurk there?’

_Jaskier and Geralt would know I could deal with them_ , she thinks but doesn’t say.

Speaking of which, the bard is...cooing at something? Yennefer can’t catch the exact words, but Jaskier sounds like he’s calling a pet cat. She tries to peer more closely without moving.

A shape rises from the bush. It’s mostly humanoid, but its eyes bulge yellow from its head and its skin is bare, wrinkles and the colour of tobacco ash.

Jaskier staggers back, his face sagging into fear. ‘Geralt!’

‘A hirikka,’ Geralt says. They might be opponents now, but Yennefer respects expertise and precision from anyone. ‘It’s probably starving.’

Yennefer is just opening her mouth to say something when she gets knocked aside. Willing lightning into her palms, ready to strike down whoever hurt her – but it’s Eyck. Eyck, the knight in shining armour, who’s rushed forward to apparently rip an innocent beast apart.

Yennefer of Vengerberg is no stranger to violence. She’s seen and done the covert kind that gets practiced at court, daggers sliding into hearts with the smoothness of a kiss. She’s seen and done the brutal, mass kind, where limbs lie scattered across battlefields like tree branches after a storm. She’s seen and done the oppressive kind, where peasants get hanged before a baying crowd for the crime of taking one apple from a harvest of thousands. Blood on her hands, at this stage, feels no less familiar than perfume.

But that violence, filled with the rush of power and sickening as it might be, always, always has a purpose. Even the eels at Aretuza supply power to its mages.

Noble Sir Eyck tears a beast apart for the crime of defending itself, and a stony fist clenches around her heart. When the others’ expressions have shifted from disgusted to bored, when they start moving down the path, she tells them she’ll catch up.

‘My dear knight!’ she breathes, as doe-eyed as humanly possible. ‘Are you hurt?’

Sir Eyck swings his sword up, sending an intestine flying. ‘Nay! Your favour kept me safe from harm as I vanquished the beast.’

She lays a chaste, soft hand on his arm. ‘You know, I have heard the lionhearted knights of Cintra eat their foes’ livers after battle.’

His eyes glint then, like a shark’s. ‘Then I too will consume the liver of the beast. For how else will the world know of my strength?’

How indeed, Yennefer thinks as she ploughs on ahead. For if she remembers her almanacs correctly, there is no Cintran tradition of eating foes’ livers, but the liver of the hirikka is deadly toxic to any who take even a bite.

*****

It’s not like Sir Eyck’s death was unexpected. If he’d proven troublesome after the dragon was disposed of, she’d have found another way to get him. But coupled with Borch Three Jackdaws and his servants falling from that terrible path...it’s more violence together than Yennefer’s seen in a while.

She’s not alone in her feelings. When she tunes into Jaskier’s thoughts, she gets shaky fear and nausea. But beneath that, there’s a strange drumbeat of determination.

_...have to tell them while I live_ , she catches. _So much death. If I don’t_...

Before she can figure out what he’s thinking about, there’s a heavy log that has to be levitated off the path. Yet those words alone leave her uneasy.

At least they can rest at the camp that night. Yennefer warms her hands at the fire and pushes back the mental picture of the old man’s face. Listlessly, she raises her face – and meets Geralt’s eyes by accident. He sits opposite her, poking at the fire with a log, and raises an eyebrow. The question he’s mentally broadcasting needs no words for her to feel it.

She dodges his gaze, looking over to the far side of the camp. Jaskier’s been pacing between the tents for at least ten minutes now, and Geralt’s waiting for an answer, and she can’t take it anymore.

‘Yes,’ she says softly to Geralt’s unspoken question. ‘Fifteen minutes. My tent.’

Even as she knows she’s snared him, it’s not enough. Yennefer feels like a fish darting from a siren, just inches away from being caught – from being _seen_. Geralt heads into the woods, and Yennefer waits until she’s sure he’s out of sight. Then she hurries towards Jaskier.

He looks up. ‘Can we talk? You, me and Geralt.’

There it is again, that fear of being spotted. But Yennefer has decades of experience in pushing it down.

She pitches her voice low, and gives him her most enigmatic smile. ‘Come by my tent. Fifteen minutes.’

It takes her until closing the tent’s flap to realise what a catastrophic idea that was. If she wants him – them – to fuck her, she needs to get ready, needs to put on perfume and brush out her hair, yet – _why_. Why did she invite them both? It was stupid, impulsive, and Yennefer has built her life on being neither.

She wrenches open her wardrobe, goes through dresses and lingerie, sees none she wants to put on. With shaking hands, she takes off her clothes. This will be enough. Has been enough. When people look at her naked body, they see it, not her face. If Geralt and Jaskier look at her body straight away, she’ll never have to see them looking at her.

The flap of the tent rustles, and Geralt’s mental signals approach. She has to force herself to turn slowly. He stands there, taking her in. Instead of the warm glow of satisfaction she feels when people look twice at her, discomfort twists in Yennefer’s gut. Geralt’s not in idle daydreams, nor masturbatory fantasies. He’s _here_. And his eyes might linger on her hungrily, but there’s something deeper behind the lust.

She kisses him, quickly, before her brain can get even more in the way. Geralt wraps his arms around her and pulls her close. But unease still stirs at the back of her mind. It’s not that Yennefer _wants_ to be treated savagely. It’s just that interaction without savagery feels like a missing stair.

Geralt holds her, but he never crushes her. And her brain’s frontmost foot reaches into a hollow, fumbling for either her to destroy someone, or him.

‘Yennefer?’

As she opens her eyes, the identity of that voice registers. _Fuck_.

‘What are you doing here?’ Geralt loosens his hold on her and steps back, frowning.

‘We were here to talk,’ says Jaskier.

So they were. ‘We got bored.’

‘To talk?’ Geralt says. ‘Is that what you’re calling it these days?’

‘That’s what _Jaskier_ wanted,’ Yennefer snaps. ‘It’s got nothing to do with me.’

‘Yennefer!’ Jaskier comes further into the tent, approaching them both.

Yennefer folds her arms. ‘This is what you wanted, isn’t it? So talk.’

Jaskier blows air out through his nose, his eyes narrowing. ‘Fine. Yennefer, I can’t just keep – looking at you, and thinking, and not saying a word. Geralt, we’ve been having sex for _weeks_ now and we haven’t said a word to each other about it.’

‘You have?’ Surprise douses Yennefer.

Geralt’s eyes flicker towards her guiltily. Then his lips tighten. ‘Jaskier, why are _you_ looking at Yennefer?’

‘This is why I said we needed to talk,’ says Jaskier, his gaze unwavering with two sets of surprised and jealous eyes fixed on him. ‘Geralt – I think you can guess why I’ve been looking.’

‘You and - ’

‘Me and Yennefer.’ Jaskier holds up a hand. ‘Look – people have died on this mountain, and as far as survival chances go, I’ve one foot over a cliff and another sliding in a pile of dung. So. I know you two are immortal and beautiful and pretend you don’t have feelings - ’

‘Witchers _don’t_ have feelings,’ Geralt rumbles.

‘I’ll believe that when you don’t chase Yennefer halfway up a mountainside,’ Jaskier says. ‘What I wanted to say was that I don’t want to fuck either of you anymore until we all get our feelings out in the open.’

Geralt surprises Yennefer with his words. He sounds as if he’s in pain, true, but the words themselves seem so unlike him. ‘How...do you feel?’

‘I love you,’ Jaskier says baldly. ‘Both of you. And I want to travel with both of you, and have sex with you, Geralt, and you, Yennefer, and all of us together. I want to write songs about you that will be heard the Continent over. There’s monsters in every bush, and armies are coming from over the mountain, and plague lingers on every peasant’s breath. But if I die tomorrow, and if – you don’t want this - I’m going out knowing that at least I said it.’

Yennefer’s heard that three-word phrase too many times to count. The telepathic waves accompanying have been dazed with post-coital satisfaction, manipulation, well-meaning condescension. But it’s never been accompanied with intention. With genuine emotion.

‘And if we said yes?’ Yennefer demands. ‘What then?’

‘We have sex. We talk. We cuddle. We spend time with each other.’

Yennefer’s heart pounds. ‘You mean...we’d be...important to each other.’

‘You already are,’ says Jaskier softly. ‘Both of you.’

Fear surges through Yennefer. Decades of long habit almost make her cast some illusion and run.

But she takes a deep breath, and says, ‘You’re important to me too. I want...this.’

Geralt is the first to act. He keeps one arm around Yennefer’s waist and grabs Jaskier’s sleeve with the other. ‘Come here. Both of you.’

Jaskier follows Geralt’s pull, and as Yennefer looks at him, she realises she doesn’t want to wait. Grabbing Jaskier by the shoulders, she kisses him, hard. Jaskier lets out a squeak, and when Yennefer opens her eyes she realises it’s because Geralt has come up behind him and squeezed his arse.

Jaskier looks from Geralt to Yennefer as he stands between them.

‘I am in _heaven_ ,’ he pronounces.

Yennefer smiles. ‘Not yet. Come into bed – there’s room for all of us.’

She hops up onto the bed. It’s only now she remembers she’s the only one naked. Geralt and Jaskier scramble to follow her. Yennefer clicks her fingers, and all their clothes fall away.

Then Jaskier catches Geralt’s eye, and they’re on each other. Geralt growls as he pulls Jaskier flush against him, the ridges and valleys of his back catching the candlelight. But Jaskier’s pressing back. He’s smaller, slimmer, his skin more tanned against Geralt’s preternatural paleness, but his mouth practically engulfs Geralt’s and his hips jut towards Geralt’s, desperate and quick. When they shift positions, Yennefer just catches their cocks rubbing together. And after so long pretending neither of them mattered, pretending they were two more names on a lengthy, dusty list, this feels like such a release.

‘Don’t keep it all to yourself,’ she says. Somewhere while watching them kissing, her fingers found her clit. ‘I want both of you.’

Jaskier breaks away from Geralt with an effort. ‘Both of us how?’

‘In me. Both of you at once.’

Geralt’s eyes open properly. ‘ _Yen_.’

Deliberately slowly, she makes eye contact while putting a finger inside herself. ‘Think you can’t handle it?’

Jaskier bites his lip, and Geralt’s eyes are fixed on her, and both their telepathic signals scream _yes_ , _yes_ , _yes_.

Yennefer shuffles towards the headboard, making room. ‘Both of you, lie down horizontally.’

They do, and seeing both their bodies stretched out before her like trays of hams at a feast sets her heart racing. With the two of them laid out before her – one slim and large-eyed, one scarred and huge - it reinforces just what she’s about to do.

Yennefer leans over to the bedside table and grabs a vial from the topmost drawer. She slides two fingers inside her arse, wet with lube, and scissors them, opening herself up. She’s always been an exhibitionist, and doing something this flagrantly private with two sets of eyes on her makes her wetter than ever. Withdrawing her fingers, she savours how _open_ she feels. Then she climbs over to where they are.

‘Yours first,’ she says to Geralt. Slowly, slowly, she lowers her cunt onto his cock, easing onto it. Her hands are on his wrist, and she moans as she feels him stretching her out. His eyes stick on her face, not letting her go. She does a few small, experimental thrusts, getting used to the feel of him and the ripples of pleasure.

‘ _Fuck_ , that’s incredible,’ she breathes. ‘Your turn, Jaskier.’

She leans back on Geralt’s cock as far as she can without letting it out of her. Reaching behind her, she grasps Jaskier’s cock by the base, giving it an affectionate stroke. She guides the tip of it towards her arse and when it first brushes her, resists the urge to sharply thrust down onto it. Instead, she slowly, achingly sits onto it, and feels it ease its way inside her. When she’s engulfed all of it, she hears Jaskier inhale sharply.

She moans, loudly. The _feel_ of him – of them. She can feel both their cocks nudging against each other on either side of her, and no part of her has felt so thin or delicate before as the skin between her cunt and arse. She loves it. Loves seeing Geralt laid out underneath her, waiting for her to make the next decision; loves knowing it’s Jaskier shifting uncomfortably behind her, desperate for her to start moving properly.

She thrusts downwards, heat rising all over her body. Gods, she’s so full – and in her decades of sexual experimentation, how has she never tried this before? Geralt’s cock fills her cunt and Jaskier’s stretches out her arse and it aches, just a bit, but it’s the kind of pain that lets you know you’re alive.

When Eyck called something sweet, he meant it was like a delicate rose, like a wafting fragrance. For Yennefer, this is sweet like the last, headiest glass of wine. It’s sweet like a gooey dessert, still warm enough to burn her tongue. It’s sweet like the first time she looked into the mirror and saw no hump on her back, while still covered in her own blood.

And she’s on top of them, she can see them watching her, see them _seeing_ her totally unbound, shameless, free. She rubs at her clit frantically, fumblingly. And the overwhelming physical pleasure she feels, the two sets of mental ecstasies, sends her tumbling over into orgasm. She comes with a scream, thrusting down on the two men across five years that she hasn’t yet able to have let go.

Geralt starts bucking up, his eyes screwed shut. Yennefer holds onto his shoulders and meets his thrusts. It only takes a few before he shouts and wet heat fills her cunt. Then Jaskier cries out and lets go, shooting up into her.

  
They all stay in that position for a second, trying to catch their breath. Then Yennefer eases off them both, taking pleasure in the sticky warmth dripping from two places. She flops down, head resting on Jaskier’s chest.

Yennefer supposes she shouldn’t be surprised that it’s Jaskier who breaks the silence.

‘You know,’ he says meditatively. ‘If you’d told me last week that I’d be suggesting this, I’d have said – that Geralt would leave us stranded on a mountaintop or something.’

Geralt snorts. ‘Please. It’d be like leaving a mouse in the path of a cat.’

‘Hey!’ Jaskier says, and whacks Geralt with a cushion.

Yennefer laughs – really laughs, and relishes the feeling of expressing without holding back. ‘Don’t be so hard on him. He is the one who came up with this.’

‘True,’ Geralt rumbles, and pulls Jaskier into his chest. ‘Come here, little bard.’

‘Don’t leave me out,’ says Yennefer, scooting over.

‘Never,’ both of them say together. The shock of hearing that, then the pleasure when it registers, warms her all the way through. Geralt unclasps his arms, and stretches them out further to include her in the cuddle. It turns out mutated, muscular witcher arms are as good for holding as they are swinging a sword. She nestles into their safety and strokes Jaskier’s hair.

‘You know Geralt has a child surprise,’ says Jaskier presently.

Yennefer checks both their minds, but there’s nothing to suggest it’s a lie. ‘You do?’

Geralt sighs. ‘ _Jaskier_.’

‘So I know it’s early days,’ Jaskier says, looking at her with that mix of lightness and deadly serious intention only he can pull off. ‘Extraordinarily early to be talking about children, certainly. But if, let’s say you _were_ trying to restore your womb to bring a terrifying Yennefer 2.0 to wreak havoc on the world - ’

‘Jaskier!’

‘You might not have to look that far afield for one. I’m certainly not against babysitting the poppet while Geralt’s out on witcher contracts. I’ll finally have a protégé to whom I can teach all my songs.’

Yennefer looks at them both. Shock ripples through her at the revelation. ‘Geralt, you _hypocrite_.’

‘Why do you think I was so insistent?’

‘Hey!’ Jaskier says. ‘No magical fights when I’m in between you two, please.’

Yennefer looks at him and decides, for now at least, to subside.

‘Now,’ he continues. ‘I know you want to make wrathful eyes of lust at each other, shout at each other, then sneak back to fuck later - ’

‘Hey!’ Geralt and Yennefer say at the same time.

‘But there’s one small difference to your usual masterful conflict resolution. Me.’

Yennefer jumps as Jaskier interlaces one of his hands with hers. Looking down, she can see his other hand in Geralt’s.

‘It’s a big decision,’ he says in a softer tone to her. ‘I know. So whenever you’re ready to say yes or no, I’m ready to listen. But I know Geralt will come for her one day, and I’ll be beside him when he does. And I’m sure a mother would be more than welcome for her.’

Yennefer opens her mouth and closes it. Perhaps she’ll have an answer one day, but right now the emotions coil too raw and ragged in her for her to say it.

Instead, she looks at them both, and says, ‘Hold me some more?’

And they do. They have a race to win – and gods, does Yennefer still want to win – but for the first time in her life, she finds herself wanting to linger in the middle of her story, rather than racing on to the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for coming on this wild ride with me! If you liked this, why not share with your Tumblr followers, Discord server or anyone else you think might enjoy it?


End file.
